


A Really Good Cry with the Winchester Boys

by RoxanneTucker



Series: Riding with the Winchester Boys [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comfort, F/M, Fingerfucking, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kissing, Making Out, Multi, Orgasm, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 08:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10240421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxanneTucker/pseuds/RoxanneTucker
Summary: "You know what I thought when I walked in here, saw you gripping this sink in my flannel shirt?"Beth kept crying, a spigot that wouldn't turn off. "You th-thought I needed to start wearing my own clothes and stop wearing yours?"Dean buried his nose into her dark-blond curls, made sure the vibration of his voice touched her ear. "I thought maybe we didn't need to get on the road so quick after all." His hands gripped her hard like a spasm. "I thought maybe I could call my brother in here and we could take turns bending you over the sink."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment to my series "Riding with the Winchester Boys," which I didn't know was going to be a series until I kinda fell in love with this female character and how the boys interacted with her. So -- now it's a series. 
> 
> These stories won't be in chronological order; we'll be jumping around to discover how this one lost and broken young woman finds herself traveling, hunting, and, eventually, falling in love with Dean and Sam Winchester. She knows that they're already in love with each other. She's just hoping, with finger's crossed and all of her good intentions and best warrior hopes, that they can find a little room in their hearts for her too.

The knuckle tap on the bathroom door was quick, perfunctory.

"You 'bout ready to go," Dean called, muffled through the old wooden door of the abandoned diner. "We need to get on the road."

He knew better than to open the door. The boys could walk in on each other peeing or share the sink while they brushed their teeth or shove each other into the tile all they wanted. But except for the occasional tangle of arms and limbs in the shower, the bathroom was the one place where Beth demanded a modicum of privacy in their crazy, entangled lives.

She was glad for that insisted privacy now as she grimaced at her reflection in the chipped mirror above the rusted sink and swiped the tears from her barely clean face. She swallowed twice, raising her chin to drain the sob from her throat before she answered.

"Yep. I'll be right out."

She strained to hear the tread of his heavy boots walking away on the warped wood boards. She realized she was holding her breath.

"Beth?"

Dammit.

"You okay in there?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'll..."

Goddammit! That jerk was opening the door. "Dean, don't-"

And then the door swung open and her big, bow-legged jerk was striding in like he owned the place, striding right toward her with no more than her same jug-of-water bath to clean off the ectoplasm, but looking so much more beautiful with his blond hair wet-darkened, and the mud streaks on his arms, and the clean t-shirt sticking to his still-damp chest, and those green eyes blinding her with their brightness and concern.

Beth had to turn away from those beautiful green eyes.

But Dean - Jesus - Dean never heard the word "no." He just slung those muscley arms around her and pulled her back against him. "Hey, hey," he said, a low rumble in her ear. "What's goin' on?"

She ducked her head away from the shiver of his voice. "Nothing. I -"

He pulled her tighter against the gun-metal heat of his chest and nipped her ear. "Nothing." He huffed away the truth of her word. "Why're you crying?"

Dean was never opposed to using the skills he learned over the years as a dominating and bossy big brother to get what he wanted. He'd used them on her before: chased her with rubber spiders, wrestled her to the ground for the last slice of pizza. Knowing so little about families and siblings, Beth was as mystified by his behavior as she was in love with it - which was probably why Sam never intervened, just continued to work on his laptop while saying things like, "Someone's going to get hurt."

Sam only got involved when the wrestling matches got interesting.

Even with Dean's eagerness to put some distance between them and the burned-out graves of their latest case, she could imagine him just holding her in his strong arms, squeezing her against his hard body, not letting her wriggle or move until her breath was heavy and sweat beads popped out on her forehead and she told him anyway. She might as well avoid some of the humiliation.

She lowered her head, her arms trapped in his hold. "I have a cut on my forehead." It came out much more pathetic than it needed to.

"Where?" He turned her toward him, swept her long, unruly curls back with a hand while pulling her closer with a grip on her hip. Manhandled her like he had a right. "It doesn't look bad."

The cut was right at her hairline; she'd already cleaned it and it only needed one butterfly closure. But.... She could feel the stupid tears crowding back into her throat. "I'm going to have another scar."

"It'll be a tiny one," he said.

Beth raised tear-filled eyes to him like he punched her.

Dean was enough of a dick to smile. Just that slight rise on the right side, that bracket into his stubble. Those sweet lines flinging away from his green eyes. It was a dick smile. But it made her want to sob.

"Darlin', I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not getting it." He gently jiggled her and knocked a tear free. She could feel it meandering down her face.

"I just..." She lowered her eyes to his neck, to that dip between his clavicles she liked to sip out of. She imagined never getting to taste that delicate skin again. "With the scars and the goo and the smell, I’m just – I’m…I'm never a woman, never… a lady. It’s stupid – I know. What we do is so important but..." Oh God, her stupid lip was trembling and more tears were joining the trail down her cheek. "But you and Sam - you're s-s-so….. and all the waitresses and the bartenders and the soccer moms and what if - what if -" She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and it tasted like sulfur. "What if I get so ugly you and Sam don't want me anymore?"

"Anymore" ended on a big ugly sob.

Quick as lightening, Dean gathered her into his arms and brought her close, close enough for her to feel the huff of a chuckle into her hair. Quick as lightening, he jerked to avoid the knee she aimed at his crotch even as she wept. Her gathered her even closer, pulling her tight against him with a clenched fist wrapped around her waist and an open palm digging into the curls at her nape. He rocked her against him.

"Girl, you're crazier than I am," he murmured into her ear, humor still in his voice, but letting her weep there against his shoulder, letting her soak the only clean t-shirt he had left.

"You know what I thought when I walked in here, saw you gripping this sink in my flannel shirt and your tight ripped jeans with the sunshine coming through that dirty window and making you glow?"

Beth kept crying, a spigot that wouldn't turn off. "You th-thought I needed to start wearing my own clothes and stop wearing yours?"

Dean buried his nose into her dark-blond curls, made sure the vibration of his voice touched her ear. "I thought maybe we didn't need to get on the road quite so quick after all." His hands gripped her hard like a spasm. "I thought maybe I could call my brother in here and we could take turns bending you over the sink."

He didn't pause to wipe the tears from her face before he was kissing her, taking in her lips and her tears and tongue, craning her head back with his clench on her curls and pulling her high and tight against him. She was up on her toes and he was devouring her mouth, zero-to-one hundred in the way that was so elemental to Dean, and Beth was shocked, and so, so fucking turned on that she was still crying, as if her body had bypassed that "off" button in its race to shove back against him and surrender her lips to every thrust and suck and bite he was carving into her mouth.

He pulled back and licked the tears from the corner of her lips. From her left cheek. From a rivulet that was about to drip off her jaw. His tongue was raspy and demanding. Then he stroked it back into her mouth, fed her tears back to her and let her suck the salt off his tongue.

Even as she moaned, a fresh wash of tears slid down her cheeks.

Dean pulled a fistful of hair away from her ear, scraped his stubble against her cheek to get to it. "When I see you, I want my hands on you," he growled. Tears gathered between her legs at the crazy bass of his voice. "Simple as that. Dirty, bruised, on a hunt, sleeping in Baby's backseat, you or Sam come into view and I think, 'Is now a good time to fuck ‘em?'"

He startled a laugh out of her - remarkable in her swirl of misery and lust - and he bent to lick it out of her mouth.

Grabbing her hips in her dusty jeans, Dean maneuvered her back against the sink. But rather than lifting her up onto it, a move she expected and wanted, the preliminary step to getting Dean Winchester inside of her, he stroked his hands back up slowly, his eyes following their path as they slid over her waist and belly, as they cupped her breasts in the baby-skin softness of his flannel shirt. As his big hands surrounded her face, his palms holding her jaw, his fingertips - rough with callouses - tickled the back of her neck.

Dean looked at her and into her with those mossy green, golden eyes, the dark rings around the iris making them even more striking. She knew what he saw – a dusty girl, scarred, blue eyes swollen from crying, tears still trickling past the nose that was a little puffy from the ghost throwing her against the wall. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the lift of those perfectly shaped pillowy lips, told her he didn't care.

When he leaned in and stroked those perfectly shaped pillowy lips over the cut on her temple, she felt the ache of her tears in her throat.

The kisses that he lowered to her lips were slow and gentle; a soft stroke, a press, a nip; unending sweetness and softness with only the dampness of their breath coming between them. She loved her rough Dean and her fast Dean and her hungry Dean. But this Dean was the Dean she craved when the thunder roared and her old fear of lightening storms flared and the new thing they chased in the dark worked to overwhelm her determination as a hunter.

His lips slid to her chin, her jaw, her cheek, and pressed to each of her tear-swollen eyes, causing a new rivulet of tears to slide down into the palms still holding her face. He delicately licked at them as he tilted his hips, gently stroked his hard cock against her belly.

“You make it hurt so good,” he promised her in a rumble. When his tongue slid across her lips and into her mouth, it was a promise to make all her doubts go away.

She didn’t let go of her grip on his waist, those bands she liked to hold onto and ride, when she heard the click of boots and slap of loafers in the hallway. Dean continued to slow fuck her mouth.

“You guys about ready to—” Sam’s voice broke off when he got to the doorway. “Hey! I thought we were in a big rush to get on the road.”

Dean took a last taste of her tongue like he was sucking up enough sweetness to last him awhile. “We are,” he finally answered, his thumb rubbing across her cheek before he dropped his hands to her hips and then away as he stepped back. He considered her for another second, his dusky freckles barely there in the spare sunlight of the dimming day.

He turned on a heel and, still leaning back against the sink, Beth looked from under damp lashes and let her eyes crawl up Sam in the doorway, up and up past long legs and slim waist and astonishing, gigantic, ever-expanding chest and shoulders into a face that was hard to see in the shadows. She hoped hers was, too. Castiel stood just behind Sam, peeking in over his shoulder.

Beth surreptitiously turned away to wipe at her cheeks, hoping to turn back and follow Dean out, use his broad back as a shield, get past Sam until she could…

“Why are you crying?” Cas asked into the gloom.

“Dammit Cas!” she cried, and when Dean stopped in front of Sam, when he put a hand on his forearm and murmured to his big little brother, she realized he never planned on keeping her embarrassing crying jag between the two of them.

“Dammit Dean!”

Dean just stepped around his brother and grabbed Cas by the trenchcoat, dragging him down the hall as the angel asked, "Did your kisses make her sad?"

Sam took two quick steps into the bathroom, arm outstretched, "Why-"

"Don't touch me," she blurted, not what she meant to say, not even what she wanted, but with the tears finally starting to dry on her face, it was the first careless thing that came out of her mouth.

And her beautiful, naked Sam, always taking on everyone else's pain, always feeling responsible for the aches of the world, he stopped, took the blow, smoothed away the instant lines of hurt on his forehead.

"Dean gets to kiss you and I can't even touch you?" he asked quietly, his words sighing off the porcelain.

"I'm sorry," she said instantly. "That's not what I meant..." And once again, here came the waterworks. "Goddammit!"

Beth had been raised in what only the most deplorable person - looking through the thickest of rose-colored glasses - could call a "God-fearing household." A single "damn" was more than enough reason to spend a few days in the Closet. Now, in her 20s and freed from that cursed place - literally, she'd cursed it - she was making up for lost time with the number of times she took the Lord's name in vain.

Sam came toward her with that cautious swayed-back walk he used when he wanted to undermine his big body's ability to intimidate. But she knew the truth about him. He was every bit as relentless as his brother.

Beth reached out and wrapped her arms around his giant forearm, pressed her forehead against his thick bicep before he could enfold her, before he could look inside her. She swiped her tears against the flannel, and it smelled like clean soap and mint gum and that green foresty smell that allowed her to know it was Sam's neck she was biting into, even in the dark.

"I'm sorry," she said again, muffled. "I didn't mean it. I never want you to take your hands off of me." She felt the softest of kisses against her hair, and more tears dripped down her cheek at the forgiveness. "It's just...when I'm sad...Dean kisses me and then forgets about it. You always want to fix it."

"And that's wrong?" Sam's voice was so warm, so kind and easy in the deepening dark of the bathroom. If he'd said that to her - "Don't touch me!" - she'd be a hysterical basket case in the corner.

She tilted her head up, rested her chin on his bicep. His long hair brushed his cheeks, but she could still see the warmth, the sweet patience, in his eyes as he looked down at her, his body perpendicular to hers, his arm ensnared in her hold and pressed against her like the world's hottest, hardest, and sexiest body pillow.

"Sometimes I don't need fixing," she said. "Sometimes I just need a really good cry."

"Got it," he breathed with soft smile and a slow nod, looking down at her. Sam was the sun and she was happy to be in his glow. "Don't always try to fix it. A really good cry."

She could see him filing it away in that big brain of his.

Beth snuggled closer to his thick arm, felt the curl of warmth in her belly, and shrugged. "Sometimes it can't be fixed anyway."

"But it can,” he said softly, that dimple keeping it from being an argument. “When what you’re upset about is factually incorrect and one hundred percent impossible."

Beth gave a huff through her nose, although her body felt so warm and tingly against his arm that it was hard to be annoyed. Sam was going to be Sam and do his damnedest to try to get her to talk about it.

And then she felt it. The spreading warmth in her pelvis. The growing tingle in her belly. The softest stroke. The chafing rub. Sam's knuckle.

She startled back away from him. Or tried to.

"Uh-uh," Sam chided, grinning devilishly as he stooped down and chained her against him by effortlessly trapping her arms between his bicep and torso.

"What are you-" Her words choked off as the back of Sam's finger stroked against the seam of her jeans. A stroke that, now she was aware of it, hit her swelling clitoris like Sam's knuckle had a homing beacon.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice strangled by the hum that had begun in her ears.

Sam’s dimple dug in deeper as the corner of his mouth kicked up. "I'm not supposed to talk about it."

The back of Sam’s finger - Sam's thick, long finger – pulsed into the seam of her jeans and made her head kick up, made her hips stutter forward as she saw stars. "Sam!"

His hazel eyes were hungry, his smile wicked, as they ate up her face, her reaction to his touch. “I’m giving you a really good cry.” His finger slid against her. “Do you like it?”

With her hands caught around his arms, she could feel the delicate ripple of muscle and tendon in his forearm and for a moment, she just stood there, dazed that such a tiny motion could cause such a expanding quake of pleasure in her body. These men, they’d shown her this, petted her then played with her then mastered her, teaching her what her body could do. So Sam knew to keep his touch slightly to the left, to nudge up and not down, to keep his strokes quick and light, light, light just before he pushed hard and in, bringing Beth up onto the toes of her Chucks.

She tried to free her arms, wanting to touch him, wanting more than his finger. He clenched his bicep to keep her trapped, his knuckle returning to vibrate over her clit as his sinful grin dripped over her. “Sam!” she cried, frustrated.

He leaned close enough for his hair to tickle her forehead. “Are you crying down there?” he asked, his voice pure velvet. “I want to get you so wet it soaks through your jeans and coats my finger. I love watching your cunt drip sweetness down your thighs.”

She buried her face against his sleeve and bit into the muscle. Sam’s filthy mouth killed her; shocked her when dirty words came from those pink, sensitive lips. The boys had told her once, while they'd all lazed in a cooling bath tub, an empty bottle of Jack and half the tub’s water on the floor, about the soulless bastard that had worn Sam’s face for a year and a half. She wondered sometimes, when Sam talked to her like this, when he strung her or Dean out for hours, making them cry they wanted to come so bad, whether Sam had retained more memories from that moral-free, carnal beast than he was willing to admit.

Oh God. If he kept touching her, she was going to start humping his tree trunk of an arm.

She arched her hips away from his hand.

"Nope," Sam laughed, scooping her ass up in his giant hand, pressing her back against him. His bicep loosened just enough for Beth to slip her arms free. But when she realized why, when she felt Sam's fingers press into her belly as he slipped the buttons of her jeans and then push down into her underwear, her hands flailed to grab back onto his t-shirt, to have something to keep her suddenly useless legs steady.

With her ass supported in his hand and her body pressed against the giant plank of his, Sam twisted his arm and stroked her clit with the calloused whorl of his middle finger.

She groaned at the squish of creamy wetness and puffy flesh and weepy, swollen, trembling clitoris between her legs.

"Beth," Sam breathed against her temple, making the cut there sting. "You feel so fucking good." He was already stooped, his big body accommodating her five-foot-four-inches, and he had to lean down further to push that middle finger, then a second, into her warm and ready pussy.

Her hands, her nails, sank into his shoulders to keep herself upright as his fingers began to pump inside her.

"Jesus, you're sweet," he said, a stroke of his tongue at her temple, her pants hanging open as he got his thumb involved strumming her clit. Helpless, she opened her thighs and rocked her hips against his hand. "Sweet and funny and brave and loving. You make us feel like there's nothing missing."

Beth bit back a surprised sob, the tears welling in her eyes and dripping down her cheeks, just like she was dripping into his palm. What was he doing? She looked up, into his determined, desperate face, those hollows beneath his cheekbones making him look as hungry as a wolf. And just beyond his shoulder, barely visible in the last light of sundown, Dean was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watched them.

"Sam," she choked through her tears, her pleasure. "You don't have to-"

"You've given us that sweetness that we didn't have," Sam insisted in a growl, his hand clenching her ass almost painfully tight as his fingers pulsed inside of her. "We had love and lust and devotion. But nothing sweet. Or soft."

Echoing his words, Sam's big hand let go of her ass to rub across it and cradle it while his fingers moved in and out of her with long, thick, twisting strokes. There was nothing soft about what Beth was feeling now, between the wail growing in her chest and splintering orgasm building in her pussy. What was he doing to her? What if he did this - they did this - and then they changed their mind?

"Sam," Beth sobbed, her nails scoring his shoulder. "Please, don't-"

"Listen to him, sweetheart," Dean called, low, from the doorway, and Sam grunted when she involuntarily clenched at his fingers. As effortless as the ghosts they chased, Sam circled around her, his arm looping over her chest to anchor her back against the massive wall of his body, his fingers never stopping and now at an angle that made her moan through her tears.

Sam's heat and strength supported her, his hard cock shoving at the small of her back, while his heavy arm kept her from spinning off into space and his fingers worked in and out of the cream of her body. And Dean could see it all, see her gaping pants and Sam's thumb playing her like a guitar string, the press of his eyes on her as real as another finger sliding in alongside Sam's.

Sam's warm voice pressed into her ear. "Dean and I thought all we could give each other were teeth and bruises and cock," he said. "You make it warm. Soft. Safe like home."

Beth was drowning. She drowning in Sam's forest smell and the inescapable strength of his body, drowning in Dean's stare and the clenched fists telling her it was taking all of his will to keep himself away from her, drowning in their words and the orgasm that was about to tear her apart and the hope flavoring her tears. These men could push her under until she never breathed again. Or they could be the air that kept her alive.

Sam's arm shifted, slid until his hand could center itself against her chest, his long fingers splayed over breast and bone and heart, pushing her against him. He bit into her lobe and growled, "There's _nothing_ you can do to this face, this body, this _fucking_ vessel-" His fingers pushed deep like the beat of her own pulse- "that would keep us from wanting the sweetness of your soul."

The dam burst. With a wailing cry, Beth's orgasm shot through her, making her heave and buck against Sam, but he kept her safe, kept her tight against him, kept her coming and crying with the relentless stroke of that spot deep inside her, all of the time telling her, into her neck, her hair, her ear, that they wanted her, they needed her, they were never ever ever going to let her go. When Beth was trembling, wracked, spent, Sam whispered it against that cut on her temple while gently petting her clit to bring her down.

He continued to whisper it as she felt Dean's hands surround her face and his lips kiss the tears away.

"You listening to him?" he asked. Without opening her eyes, Beth nodded. "You believe us?" She nodded again. His scruff scraped across her cheek as he pressed against her front, stroked his lips across her ear. Sam's hot length supported her back, the heat of his breath warming her ear and neck on the opposite side.

"Then make it stone number one," Dean growled into her ear, the demand in his voice outweighing the request. "You're never getting rid of us."

With feeling finally returning to her limbs, Beth raised her hands and wrapped them around the back of Dean's neck, around the back of Sam's neck, and tugged them even closer to her. Like a thunderstorm giving its last rumble, both of the men leaned and softened against her.

Finally, Beth understood. Yes, these were the most powerful, the most beautiful, the most erotic men Beth could imagine being shaped. They'd been to Hell, been vessels for the mightiest of Heaven's creations, took on apocalypses as often as others waxed their cars. But Beth had power here, too. And she could cause hurt with that power when she doubted their love for her - even if the word "love" still was too powerful for them to say.

"Okay, Dean," she breathed into the dark bathroom, night officially wrapping around them as closely as their bodies. "Okay, Sam." She paused as Sam gently pulled his hand from her underwear, as she felt him give his brother's hard cock an affectionate squeeze before he settled the hand on her hip. She was going to have to take care of the boys - take care of them real, real good - after they put some miles between them and the case.

"You know," she continued as both the boys straightened. "I'm still going to need a good cry every now and then."

"Then come find me or Sam," ordered Dean, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. So bossy. "Don't lock yourself in the bathroom."

"That's right," Sam said, kissing her cheek as he buttoned up her jeans. "Why have a really good cry? We can give you a great one."

With that logic impossible to argue with, Beth followed Dean - Sam close at her back - out of the bathroom, out of the diner, and out toward a road where the Winchester boys promised to never let her go.

THE END


End file.
